


On The Edge Of Summer

by genarti



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Air Bisons and Lemurs, Bechdel Test Pass, Building and Rebuilding Religion, Family, Gen, Growing Up, Tattoos, Worldbuilding, air family, tradition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti/pseuds/genarti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jinora, airbending tattoos, and adulthood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Edge Of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for allchildren for the 2012 [Avatar Ladyfest](http://avatar-ladyfest.dreamwidth.org). Thanks to Ryfkah for betaing, and to aquamirage for running the exchange, and to allchildren for a fantastic prompt I had enormous fun with!
> 
> Warnings for someone getting a tattoo onscreen and for thoughts about past genocidel.

Jinora has always been someone who knows her own mind. Her parents both tease her about that: there are interminably retold family stories about her stubborn toddlerhood. By this point, Jinora can recognize the one about the lionmoose den halfway through the first sentence.

But all the same, she's flown this thought around and around in her mind, until the point where she's seen it from every angle she can, and she needs to tell it to someone else.

Ikki, her usual confidante, is out of the question. Jinora already knows Ikki's opinion on this subject, and anyway Ikki is much better for discussing boys than for discussing questions of patience and politics. (Though she's surprisingly incisive about gossip.) Meelo is a brat and _definitely_ out of the question, and Rohan and Ohru are little kids. And her dad--

Well, she'll need to talk to him too. But that, she thinks, is for later.

So the choice is easy. The hard part is catching her mom alone.

Finally she manages, one night when Tenzin is at a late Council meeting and the little ones in bed. Meelo challenged Ikki to a late-night game of airball half an hour ago, and Ikki's never been able to resist a dare. Jinora has no problem resisting dares (well, mostly) and is well known as a bookworm, so rolling her eyes and staying behind was easy.

"Mom?" she says now, feeling strangely hesitant. Which is stupid; she's been waiting two weeks to have this conversation.

"Mm?" Pema makes a face at the robes she's mending, without looking up. Rohan's astonishing talent for muddying and tearing his outfits has yet to subside, and no one's holding out hope that his eighth birthday will work any magic. "Yes, Jinora?"

Jinora folds her hands around each other. She's mature and adult, seventeen years old, and she is _not_ going to fidget. "Mom, I think I'm ready to get my tattoos."

Pema's hands pause, shrouded in orange fabric. She looks up.

Jinora doesn't bite her lip or fidget or start babbling. She has no intention of ever admitting how hard she has to squelch all three impulses right now, though. "I'm ready," she says again, instead, calm and serious. "I'd've gotten them already in Grandfather's time. _Ikki_ could have them already in Grandfather's time, probably. I know it's different now, but there's no point in holding off for years when I don't need to."

"It's not just about your airbending," Pema says gently. "We all know you're good enough, Jinora. But you're going to be conspicuous--"

Jinora snorts, unable to help herself. She casts a deliberate glance down at her orange-and-saffron Air Acolyte robes. "We're _all_ conspicuous, Mom."

Pema laughs too, but it was brief. "You know what I mean. You could change your clothes if you wanted. The tattoos are there for good. You know what lengths your father has to go to if he ever wants to blend in in a crowd. You'll be a public symbol, honey, as soon as you get the arrows. Be sure you're ready for that."

"I know that." Tenzin sat her down years ago to have the discussion -- a solemn one, because Dad is like that, especially when talking about their Sacred Airbender Legacy -- about why the arrow tattoos aren't just a matter of airbending mastery these days, and won't be for another generation or three. Being an airbender and Avatar Aang's granddaughter is public enough, but not as much as being a tattooed master is. "I've thought about it. But Dad shouldn't be the only airbending master in the world. He's _not_ the only airbending master, so why should he be the only one stuck representing us?"

"He's happy to save you kids that for a while longer," Pema says, setting Rohan's half-mended robe carefully in her lap. "Don't make this decision just for your father's sake, Jinora. We both want you to have time to be young."

Jinora feels her eyebrows lifting in amusement. "We're all Avatar Aang's grandchildren," she points out. "And the only airbenders in the world. Of course family duty matters." Pema grimaces a little, and Jinora hurries to finish before she can object again. "It's not just guilt, Mom. Or obligation. I want to do my part. I've got the skills, you know I do -- I want to show the world."

Pema stares down at her mending, her brows drawn together. Jinora holds her breath.

"When you're eighteen," she says at last, and Jinora breathes out a small gust, unsure if she's disappointed or gleeful. That's months away -- but it's only months away! "It's Tenzin's decision if you're ready, but I think your mother gets a vote too." Jinora, an oldest sister, can almost mouth the next sentence along with her: "You know whatever age you get your arrows at is when the others will want theirs too."

Jinora beams at her, and finds she's just gleeful after all. Eighteen is nothing. "Thanks, Mom!" She bounces to her feet, air shooting around her hands to propel her up, and hugs her mother's shoulders. Pema's face does something complicated against Jinora's cheek, but she hugs back.

Next step: talking to Dad.

 

 

 

Jinora has traveled more of the world than most people will ever see. She knows, vaguely, that this is a privilege, but it's mostly just a fact of life. Republic City will always be home, but an Air Nomad has the freedom of the winds.

Trips on Oogi to the South Pole to see Gran-Gran and Aunt Kya, visits to Uncle Bumi at whatever port he's docked in that month, the short westward flight to see Granny and Gramps and Uncle Li at their farm. The longer, more formal trips to the Firelord's court or Ba Sing Se to visit with all her almost-family there. That long, terrifying flight from Amon's Equalists when she was ten, and everything that followed after. Tenzin's diplomatic trips to wherever he's needed. (Recently he's been bringing Jinora along to one after another, instead of trying to avoid them like usual. Jinora suspects he's trying to prove to her that the life of an Air Master is full of drudgery and polite meetings, so that she'll decide to stay un-arrowed for a few more years of childhood. It's too bad for Tenzin that his daughter's as stubborn as the rest of her family.) Travel involves some constants: Oogi, a back-saddle tumble of luggage and gliders and presents, and at least one family member. Usually more.

It's different, flying all alone with Oona.

She earned her air bison three years ago, and she loved her wholeheartedly from the first sloppy lick the baby bison gave her. Oona was tiny then, barely human-sized, and it took all her concentration to hover enough to lick her person's face. But air bison grow fast, and Jinora has ridden her on trips before, gliding in Oogi's serene wake or doing gleeful loops while Oogi snorts in patriarchal tolerance. Sometimes, she's even managed to do so without one of the kids clamoring to ride behind her. But they've only traveled alone for short trips, a few hours at most.

This is different. This is Jinora's pilgrimage.

Of course she's seen the other Air Temples before. She's heard the stories: _this is where your grandfather grew up, this is where the Avatar and his friends fought the Combustion Man. Monk Gyatso lived and died here. This is the history of your people. This is where the gliders anyone can use were developed._ But now she's not a kid. She's an Air Master in transition, and she and her air bison are choosing their own air currents, and she's on pilgrimage to the sacred sites of the Air Nomads.

The Northern Air Temple, childhood home of Avatar Aang, deathbed of hundreds. (They're all deathbeds of hundreds. It was almost two centuries ago, and Firelord Zuko played with her in her cradle, but Jinora has always carried the knowledge of that genocide like a hollow in her heart. She has one airbender father, four airbender siblings, and a thousand scrolls written by dead men and women in the prime of their society. The breezes whispering through every Air Temple sing _This is how we lived_ , and they whisper, _This is how we died._ ) It lives again, with Air Acolytes and historians and cake-bakers and a small colony of air bison, but when Jinora meditates she hears again the wind on its ceaseless circling journey, and she thinks it whistles _lost, lost, lost_ among the highest stupas.

The Eastern Air Temple, still a mountain home to a handful of eccentric sages, all of whom ignore each other's existence most of the time. Turtlechickens peck and bobble around their feet, benignly neglected as they grab fuzzy crickets out of the underbrush. Jinora bows deeply to the sages, fist to palm, and ignores them too. She feels like a weakling for halting each day's meditation to sleep and eat. She tells herself that means she's cultivating humility.

The Southern Air Temple, bustling with the engineers and students of Air Temple University. The bones of the old temple lie like the skeleton beneath all the progress: the bright-painted homes, the steam pipes and gearworks, the workshops and classrooms. Little toys and half-finished experiments bob everywhere. The sanctuary stands open, its airbending lock intact but ignored, its ancient cavern a home to the largest construction projects the University board approves. Every corner holds a fuzzy and unconcerned hermit crab, a gear or pen or piece of chalk, perhaps an ancient painting of a sage painted with fixative to keep it from dust and decay. Jinora spends her three days of meditation there in three different places: the first in a prayer nook carved high on one wall, its illustrated teachings faded but not destroyed; the second in the sanctuary in the middle of the bustle and yells of engineers too caught up in their work to remember her presence. The third she spends on her glider all day, circling the temple, her eyes closed so she can be one with the air. She tilts away from gliders and flying lemurs, evading them like the air currents do, but she smiles with the sun on her eyelids when they yell or chirp greetings.

The Western Air Temple has always been her favorite. She loves how it hides itself away; she loves the moment when you dive into the vast foggy crevice and see its upside-down spires unfurling before you. She walks the whole temple, greeting its handful of acolytes as they walk the halls and scurry up and down the permanent ladders to the earth above, but she meditates her three days in the same spot: a spur of rock, carved in flutes and ripples, jutting deep in the green peaceful fog. The whole weight of the temple hangs over her head, suspended in air and history. On the second day, a lemur curls up in her lap and spends three hours napping with its furry chin on her folded hands.

When it returns as the sun is setting on the third day, Jinora opens her eyes and smiles. "Hey, little guy," she says softly. Her voice feels unfamiliar in her throat, after so many hours of silence. "You come to make friends?"

The lemur chirrups and scampers up to her shoulder, nosing at her hair. Jinora laughs silently, and then it sticks its cold nose in her ear and she yelps with laughter that isn't silent at all. Taro, she names him, and he rides proudly on Oona's head all the way home.

 

 

 

If it weren't ritual, she'd make Ikki help. Shaving her head is a sign of adulthood, of coming of age, of mastery, but --

but, well, she _likes_ her hair.

Jinora glowers at herself in the mirror. _Are you a baby?_ she demands silently of herself. _You made all those arguments to Mom and Dad, about how adult you were and ready for responsibility and everything, and you're going to balk about your hair?_

This is not the proper meditative state of mind.

If she wanted, she could probably go to her father and ask him to shave her head. Or her mother, even. It could be a new tradition. When Grandfather was a boy, the Air Nomad children had shaved heads all their lives, but Aang founded Republic City, and Tenzin grew up there almost as much as Jinora herself has. The rituals of transforming from a city-dwelling Air Acolyte to an airbending Master are in transition. But she already told him that she wanted to it herself, and it would be giving up to change her mind.

Jinora sets her jaw. _Be like the leaf,_ she thinks. _Blow into a new life._

She picks up the clippers again.

 

 

 

Tenzin draws the lines first, in weak ink with a careful brush. It tickles. Jinora keeps her eyes closed and her breathing steady, so she won't twitch and smudge her father's work. This work can be smudged, of course -- it's the tattoos that will follow these guidelines that really matter -- but she'd feel dumb.

She's glad the blue flowers bloom only in summer. Today she's only getting her head done, but later she'll get her back and arms and legs, and she'll be glad of the warmth. (At least, she thinks she's only getting her head done. Tenzin was vague about how long it would take. In Grandfather's day, several monks would have worked together to finish the whole tattoo in a day, while the new master lay in motionless meditation. But when there's only one person to do the work, it has to be spaced out.)

Her newly shaven head feels chilly anyway, not because it really is but because she isn't yet used to the way air slides unimpeded behind her ears and down the nape of her neck. With her eyes closed, it's easy to focus on that strangeness, on the cool damp lines of ink brushed across her scalp. She feels exhilarated and distant at once, as if she's slowly separating from her body. As though she could step into the Spirit World like Korra or Grandfather, and turn around to see her own body sitting placid and bald.

"All right," Tenzin says, and it's the solemn tone that means he's nervous and trying to squash that out with extra dignity. Jinora opens one eye, and realizes -- of course. Her father's never done this before either. How did she not figure that out? Tenzin pretends to be so self-assured, all the time, but usually she sees through it.

Someday, she'll be the one with needles and hammer and ink, tattooing a new Master. Sister Jinora; Master Jinora. For a moment she feels as if she can see the future, the past, herself as a confident old woman and herself as a child and her father as a young uncertain man, a long stretching line of points overlapping each other. She feels dizzy.

"The edges better not wiggle," she warns her father, and he's startled into a laugh. Jinora closes her eye again, serene with victory.

Her father's hand, warm and dry, touches her forehead. "Now, Jinora, you are an Air Master," he murmurs, and a sharp cluster of ink-wet needles prickles damply against the chi point in the center of her brow. Jinora breathes in, and there's a soft tap and sharp pain. The first dot of blue.

Of course it hurts. She expected it to hurt all through, all the long steady work punctuated by breaks for Tenzin to rest his hands and Jinora to meditate without needles poking into her, and in a way it does, but she drifts into meditation. It's a deeper trance than she's ever managed before; she can feel herself hurting, but it's like distant light, bright against her eyelids. She feels as if her head's slowly forming arrow is glowing like clustering moth-fireflies, like Grandfather's did in the Avatar State. Most of Jinora is drifting in the air around Air Temple Island, tracing currents and tumbling over windowsills and rooftops.

"All right, Jinora," says her father's voice, and it takes Jinora a long moment to recognize that she's being spoken to; it takes her another long moment to open her eyes. The weariness in her father's voice hits her at the same time she sees it in the lines of his long face.

He's smiling, though.

"Are you done?" she asks, and is distantly surprised her voice doesn't croak. Part of her attention is still following the air around the room.

_Ow_ her skull hurts.

Tenzin's beard wags when he's trying, and failing, to suppress a smile. "Down to your shoulders," he says, "and that's quite enough for the first day. I'm going to start dropping the needles soon."

Jinora grimaces, which is unwise with a just-tattooed forehead. _Ow_. "Let's avoid that," she agrees. Her father sets down the cloth he was using to wipe off his hands -- it's stained with blood more than blue, Jinora realizes, which shouldn't be surprising but makes her stomach twist anyway -- and offers her a hand up. Jinora hasn't needed help to get up out of meditation position since the time she sprained her ankle when she was twelve, but she clasps her father's hand anyway and lets him pull. A judicious gust of wind helps.

Her legs feel wobbly. Maybe a hand up was a good idea after all.

He lets go of her hand and steps back enough to bow to her, fist to palm, and Jinora returns the bow automatically. He gave her the bow of a peer, she realizes with a jolt, halfway through and staring at the floor, not the bow of a sifu. "Jinora," her father murmurs, as she straightens up. "I am so very proud of you."

Jinora suspects she's smiling like an idiot, no matter how serene and Air Master-y she wants to seem.

"I know," she says, and grins up at her dad. _Peer to peer_ , she thinks, and at the same time, _I love you, Dad._ He just grins back.

"Come on," her father says, and loops an arm very carefully around her back, below the tattoo's end. "Let's go find some dinner."

"I want to see a mirror first," Jinora says, but she heads for the door.


End file.
